


Intimate Disregard

by hikash0



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Burns, Denial, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Kiss, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Isolation, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Manipulation, Nightmares, Physical Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikash0/pseuds/hikash0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Honor of Black Ice Week.</p><p>Pitch is not one to grasp the concept of getting what he wants through gentleness. He has the patience of a spoiled child and reacts in kind. </p><p>When an encounter with Jack reminds Pitch of his slights, he crosses a line that can't be re-drawn. After some time, bitterness turns to regret. Pitch longs once more for Jack to see things his way and will do anything to make it so. Pitch’s methods prove to be too much for Jack and the Nightmare King must decide between letting Jack go with his sanity, or keeping him and losing the Jack he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Don't touch me. Don't. DON'T. I swear, I swear I'll-"

He recedes and flinches back as my fingers search for his face. So unused to touch, responding in such an exaggerated manner. I let my hand drop and the relief in his eyes is tangible.

He shivers when I disregarded his will, when my nails scratch, instead, softly at the inside of his wrists. We've played this game once before If I remember it. The first time I broke his trust surprised him so. As if he had no notion of deception, or treachery, or lies. He had been so incredulous. So lost for what to do. Lost on how to react when I went back on my word and kept that ugly flitting thing out of his reach.

A little trill of shock hits my ears. I know what being touched does to him. His dead heart beats oh so fast. His mouth twitches, working to form words, eyes blinking rapidly.

Hush.

And how the fear creeps in, marching from his skin, right through the core of me and into my brain, almost making me drunk.

He hums in terror, straining away, everything rotten in me quickly leeching what little bravery he still has left. I send the dark to slither in his ears, stirring his mind askew with all the horrors I intend for him. If only he hadn’t rejected me.

He stills and then begins to shake. His tremors grow in size, rattling his bones like a bag of skinny dead things shaken hard. Charming. But all things must end, and my time is, for now, expended.

He sinks to the floor when I release him, his knees smashing to meet the stone with a crack. He is dazed, numbed by what must be sensory overload. He whispers something, a breathless string of nonsense and I lean towards the sound, his voice drawing me in, just like the rest of him.

He reawakens to my presence. His face crumples before he throws himself away from me, one arm extended to ward me off, the other moving in a constant wiping motion over his mouth. He swipes at his hair and clothes, as if he still feels a phantom hand on him.

I chuckle and the sound seems to wound him. His eyes are huge, his fingers twitching. I step forward, forcing shadows in around him. Just to draw a reaction, just to see. He jerks and sputters out a high cry of, "No, please!"

No matter how long it has been, he’s still such a young thing after all – so precious, but so lonely, and so afraid. I almost pity him. I’m a bad loser, and this chance meeting caught me at a particularly bitter time.

I sigh. I must be going. I kick the long, gnarled length of wood towards him. It clatters, jumps, and rolls erratically until it gently bumps the tips of his bare toes. His head jerks up and he lunges for it, clutching it close to his chest with boney hands turned white and purple now, because of me.

I turn away and the slipping and sliding scrabbles of his lanky limbs are all I hear as he trips over himself to flee. I follow the hitches in his erratic breath up and down my labyrinth of stairs and bridges until I finally let him locate the Easter tunnel. His slapping, clumsy footsteps echo in my bones at a frantic pace before suddenly vanishing as he disappears beyond my reach.

Goodbye, dear friend. Think of me won't you?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Honor of Black Ice Week.
> 
> The Guardians' search for Pitch yields nothing. Did Jack imagine it all? It can't be, not when he still feels the burn on his mouth.

“I can’t go with you,”

“But—”

“I SAID I CAN’T, OKAY?”

He screams at his friends and they flinch away, his voice like shattered glass, biting and cutting with cold. They look to each other, questioning his stability. The noise of the workshop below stops and all the toymakers hold their breath, awaiting the group verdict.

“You are sure this is what you are wanting?”

His head snaps up quickly to face his pseudo-father. He wants to speak, he does, but a shadow passes over his heart and he can only nod ‘yes’ without uttering a word. The rest are unwilling, but soon they are ushered down the hallway and out of sight by broad shoulders and large tattooed forearms. He watches them go with a tightly drawn face and knit brows. His eyes darken and he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

The noise of the workshop resumes, his hands twitch and he shudders. He turns on his heel and walks briskly into the small room reserved for him. It is a storeroom filled with vintage toys, all stacked and neatly kept on a large shelf by the wall farthest from the door. There is a circular window with a ledge that seems to be made for perching. In front of it rests a simple bed piled high with patchwork quilts and fur blankets. An old furnace sits dark and unused in the corner at the foot of the bed.

The room might be welcoming if not for the numbing sheen of ice covering every surface. None of the lanterns are lit and moonlight illuminates the room, casting grim shadows and cold light.

Upon closer inspection, the circular window turns out to be horizontally hinged. It contains a rotating pane of glass that can be leveraged open at will. It is here that he sits. On the window ledge, knees drawn to his chest and a bit of his thumbnail between his teeth. He huddles in on himself despite the fact that he has not been cold in centuries, and stares at the sky. He is upset, and as time passes he bites his nail past the skin, drawing blood. He hisses and wipes his mouth a few times in a compulsive echo, each time harder and more forceful than the last. Soon he is rubbing at his mouth as if it is a stain to get out. His breath catches in his throat and a strangled sound escapes, somewhere between a scream and a cry. His eyes clench shut and he bites down and buries his face in his forearm to quell the noises. He rocks onto his knees, taking shallow breaths between the silent shaking of his shoulders. He cries like that for a long while— hiding his face from sight, not allowing a sound to escape—until the moon sets and the room is left with nothing but the light of the stars to illuminate it.

The others return with the dawn. They are empty-handed, tired, and more than one of them has written the mission off as nothing more than a fictitious bad dream, a fear-induced-fallacy created by too-vivid memories of an enemy defeated.

Exhausted and with their own duties to perform, they do not visit his room. They will tell him later that there is nothing worth worrying over and he, with mangled nail beds, will try very hard to believe them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be switching perspectives in this fic. All of the perspectives relating to Jack are planned to be written in third person limited. Almost all of the Pitch perspectives will be written in first person. There will also be sections in Jamie, Sophie and North's perspective, all of which I'm planning to do in third person limited.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Honor of Black Ice Week.
> 
> Pitch watches Jack sleep and something changes. They could have accomplished so much together. They still could.

He sleeps like the dead and has no dreams. I draw near to him, until I stand above his bed. Heavy clouds fill the night sky and as the moon has no power where there is no light, I can roam freely. A day has passed since our accidental reunion and my mind has been overrun with thoughts of him. Even as draining as it is to venture so far in my current state, I still find myself in this room by his side. Simply put, I could not stay away.

Oh, I am still angry. Furious and enraged at his very existence. No one humiliates me like that without repenting. No one. I daresay I want to pry him apart from the inside, I want to terrify him, and ruin him until he freezes solid to get away from me.

But I will not. Not yet at any rate. As long as the possibility still remains.

The rise and fall of his chest sends small flurries of ice from between his lips so that his pillow is dusted with snow. I pick up a few stray flakes. They melt in my hand quickly, dissolving into droplets that run the length of my fingertips and come away darkened with my essence. I watch them dance like liquid shadow, falling from one digit to the next, each time leaving a small strand, as fine as a hair, between my fingers. I spin a web. I meld the strands together, twisting them here and pulling them there. I sculpt a dark, fragile thing with care and a certain fondness I had nearly forgotten. When I am done, I set the ornament to rest on his pillow where his breath quickly flows over it it and crystalizes it. Filaments of ice pull forth from the thin strands of darkness, wrapping tightly as muscle would cling to bone. I watch, contrition making me frown. What beauty we could have made, what resplendence cold and dark combined creates. A black frost flower unfurls as our magic does its work, his rejection ever heavy on my mind. I will do nothing. Not now. Let him wake to find my gift and let it be I who is ever heavy on his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter: Jack is afraid to go outside, the Guardians try to be supportive.
> 
> Soon to come: Pitch starts trying to accumulate the strength he'll need for another encounter any way he can get it, causing him to swallow something that should have been left alone. Jack hangs out with Jamie and Sophie, and Jack finally gathers the courage to face his fears.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Honor of Black Ice Week
> 
> It takes weeks for Jack to leave the workshop, and even longer for him to stop checking over his shoulder and cowering at the shadows cast by moonlight. A kiss is a small thing to some, maybe Jack should just forget.

He does not wake after the dark one leaves, though he shifts in his sleep several times. It is a dreamless sleep; apprehensive like the expectation of bad news. He rolls on his back and it is not long after this that the flower begins to wilt for want of his cold breath and touch. By morning it is little more than an unremarkable splotch of faded shadow on his pillow. He does not see it and with the reassurances of last night still strong in his mind, would not be concerned with it even if he had. The others searched, the other checked and found nothing, no one. He imagined it, slept-walked it like some kind of lucid dreamscape. It wasn't real, it didn't happen. It was just a freak hallucination, a wakeful nightmare—not all of which had to be created by someone either. There was no evidence besides his paranoia-crusted memory to suggest that...that...

He stops himself from dwelling on it, though he does wipe his lips on the back of his arm before he can return to dressing.

The next weeks drag by at a crawl. He is reluctant to leave the safety of the northern fortress while the rest try to coax him outside. They insist that he has nothing to fear and invite him over for lessons on dental hygiene, sand sculpting, and painting. They push plates of cookies at him in the halls, pop up from the ground to make bad jokes and try to goad him into snarky conversation. They insist that he start planning designs to weave onto his hexagonal snowflake canvases and casually remark that an early winter might hold some merit. Even the Australian grumbles his consent.

Months pass slowly and he has regained his spark. It is snowing late into April and he makes up for his melancholy with doubled exuberance. Still, he rarely ventures near the pond or the surrounding town and it weighs on him. He knows a particular child must miss him. It has been doubly long since he has played out in the dark and a string of pleasant dreams means that the golden one has noticed.

Time passes, things get easier and the exchange slowly slips from his memory.

After five months without incident he has all but forgotten. He no longer brushes his lips clean, he no longer flinches at the oddly cast shadows in his bedroom. He has put it from his mind. A large part of him feels foolish for dreaming up such a thing; the dark one is gone for good. A smaller part, the part that keeps him away from the pond and the town, says it is better to believe in a foolish dream than to be proven wrong by a reaching shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out thanks to everyone who left Kudos, bookmarked and/or commented, it's a great motivator and just makes me happy over all. So thanks for being lovely!


	5. Reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Honor of Black Ice Week.
> 
> Pitch hates being ignored. Being forgotten is the one thing he can't forgive.

It has been far too long. His curiosity should not keep him away like this. Not when I have made a gift so obviously intended for him. I pace in the same spot, impatient, annoyed, concerned even, though not particularly for his wellbeing. My concern is more for the fact that he might never come. He is the only one who ever would, the only one who ever has, and a sharp pulling at my chest causes me to acknowledge that his presence, however irksome, was meaningful.

Could the others be keeping him? Perhaps he is not as impressionable as I thought, not as rash, not as foolish. Perhaps he cares not, perhaps he has...forgotten?

This will not do.

It takes time to carve out a new tunnel—long and dark like a wormhole, reaching in the shadow and filled with the shifting form of a single Nightmare Man and the few weakly lingering Fearlings that remain. I am exhausted these days and, though the shadows still bend to my will, I have, on more than one occasion, felt the hot prickling stare of my last remaining monstrosity. I find myself uneasy at times, on the verge of an inexplicable sensation. If I didn’t know better I would label it fear.

Finally, I have amassed enough energy. We twist our way silently while the Fearlings carve at the earth in handfuls that liquefy like ink. I soak up the primal fear, the blood and death that has been saturating the earth since the dawning of life. It is not ideal, the essence far too convoluted, and I am unused to the effort it takes to draw it out. It tastes charred, not as refined as the pure fear of children, but it makes me strong enough to compress myself and slip through the air pockets within rock and stone and pavement. I emerge beneath the shadows of a melancholy tree; it is dusted with snow and again my mind is flushed with bitterness that trickles down my spine. I rupture quickly and hide—lest the moon spy me—within the spidery, intersecting shadows beneath the warped branches.

His town haunts me, my defeat still heavy in the air. That house, the one that contains the most wretched of children, it is quiet as I make my way towards it. I am surprised to find the boy awake, kneeling at the side of his bed, head bowed in what seems like prayer. I halt my intent and listen instead. His lips move quickly and the low softness of his whispers intrigues me.

"Let him visit, please let him come. He said he would come, he wouldn't lie so... So please make him come back, okay? Tell him I need him, that I miss him, that it's been way too long. Please,"

He isn't here, pity.

The little thing isn't even asleep and already the fear oozes from his pores. Fear that he will be let down, that everything will turn out to have only been a dream.

How curious that loneliness such a universal thing.

I reach out, not to touch the child but to take what fear I can grasp at in my state. I will soon need it. It seems as though a certain someone is desperate for a reminder that I continue to walk the world, albeit however quietly.

 

 

 

***

  
The dark one is gone and the child gives a great sigh, his anxiety suddenly vanishing as if lifted from his shoulders. He turns his face to the window where the moon shines faintly, a sliver in the sky, only one night away from the dark time of the month. The small boy looks out at the deserted streets below his window and wishes his hardest for a snow day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect the next chapter to be in Pitch's perspective too rather than Jack's. There's something I need to expand upon in order for there to be no plot holes later on. Basically the theme for the next chapter is something like:
> 
> "Put that thing back where it came from or so help me! So help help me! So help me!"
> 
> Shout out to Charmed7293 for betaing all the chapters so far! She has an Ao3 and you should go check out her recent work. It's BlackIce~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Honor of Black Ice Week
> 
> In his search for a method to reach out to Jack, Pitch finds exactly what he needs and does not stop to consider the consequences.
> 
> Warnings: Cannibalism (of a sort) and descriptive depictions of gore/violence.

I exit into shadow and make my way to the outskirts of town. I am completely spent and the fear I so recently consumed is already ebbing away. I slide through the trees, rough bark catching on my skin and the sponginess of the earth giving beneath my feet. Anger boils in my gut, anger and frustration at how pathetic I am. How could I fall so far? It makes me want to reduce him, too bring him down to my level, but I can barely scratch a hair on a child’s head. It would be impossible for me to chase after him, to leave any more little reminders on his pillow. Maybe if he came to my side on his own, then I could teach him that it’s where he belongs.

A brittle laugh forces its way from my mouth. It’s a struggle to walk straight, how can I teach him anything? I can’t keep going like this. I won’t stand for waiting another thousand years to make my move, not when his attention span seems about that of a gnat. I need power, I need fear, and I need it now. Carving it out of the earth is entirely inefficient, it takes more energy to produce than it gives me, and the fear of children is wildly beyond my current means.

I bypass his pond, barren and empty, lonely without his presence. I shut my eyes at the ice around its edges and continue on. I do not like how strongly his absence is starting to make me fee

The dampness persists as I enter my home; the air is still and stagnant. It is deadly quiet. I search for them, my companions, but it seems they have not returned. Quite abruptly, the grandness of it all is too much, there is too much space, and, even with the moon at its weakest lunar stage, the faint light of the stars seeps in. Sometimes I hate the stars almost as much as the moon, they are all liars who do not answer wishes.

I need to go deeper, somewhere quiet and dark to sleep. Perhaps if I sleep for a while I will be strong enough to reach out once more. I chuckle again. I have always been proficient in crafting illusions. So much that it seems I have taken up the habit of creating them for myself.

Stairs, there are so many stairs; spiraling down and deep, curving and twisting, dropping out only to give way to more. I sigh as the blackness envelops me like a gradient with every step I take. It slides gently up my skin as I descend, soothing the unforgiving sting of the moonbeams. So lovely, there is no resistance here, no friction against light. I close my eyes, letting shadow lead me along. My mind is a haze of lethargy and oh how I long to give in to sleep right on the spot.

But there is something, something far away; a trembling and a groaning in the rock. First I feel it, and then I hear it.

The sound hits my ears, sound in a place where no sound should be. It is the bubbling of liquid at a slow broil and the wail of inhuman screams. I try to halt but my legs do not heed my fog-addled brain. They march along like the limbs of a wind up toy, down deeper into the oblivion, trailing after the sound like a moth to light.

I smell it then, just as my feet land on solid ground. Like iron, like blood, it is fear. It builds slowly, as if to match my mounting hunger. The fear dances and leads my desire. The hollow in the pit of my stomach and the weakness of my limbs reach out for it. I drift forward and it becomes more potent, saturating the air. It brushes through my hair, rises like a crescendo all around me, filling my lungs until I can feel myself growing stronger with a simple inhale. My eyes snap open and I surge forward. A crushing sense of urgency knots my insides; I must find this, whatever is causing it, I must have it! It—it’s perfect. With a fear such as this I’ll be able to do anything I like. With this I’ll be able to reach him again, I—

I fly through the jaws of a black archway and stop dead.

I am in a vacuum, a void. I turn, there is no archway behind me; it has closed up. The fear is gone. For a moment more there is just space and the taste of ancient stardust drying on my tongue. Then the scene shift and my eyes widen.

What is this? I am in a vast cavern. The ceiling is splintered, there are large chunks of rock strewn everywhere. They seem to have been blasted in from the outside, even though that is impossible—there is no outside, only hundreds of miles of earth. Some are shattered, the remains pockmarked as if by acid. Others are rippled and melted, as if struck by something falling fast at an impossible temperature. After a moment I realize that it looks like the site of a crash.

I look further; there is a single slab of stone in the center of the cavern with a scar impaled deep into the face of the rock. As I stare at it, something pops in the back of my mind. Suddenly things hurt, my limbs burn, my face and clothes are on fire; there is dirt and blood and a jarring feeling of a blade being pressed through the space between my ribs and into the core of me. The vision flares for a moment more before it dissappears.

My head clears and I steady myself, trying to grasp at the images is like snatching at smoke. Finally I take in what makes up the majority of the cavern’s ‘floor’. The rock is set in gurgling, bubbling tar. From the tar comes that sweet smelling terror. As soon as I think of it, it hits me full on, sharpening my every sense. Then I see it. I see what’s making the sound. What’s making the smell, the gorgeous fear. It takes hold of me and I become blind to everything else.

A single Fearling screeches and writhes in the tar, clawing at the charred stone edges of the massive, bubbling pool. It’s shrieks and hysteria send a tremor through my body. I am drawn towards the ensnared thing as if enchanted. It gives off the loveliest aroma… The tar moves as I approach. Thin tendrils entwine slowly around joints, sinew and tendons, threading in and out of the Fearling while it screams. It crushes and rips at the Fearling. The little pops of mashed exoskeleton, the groaning of shadow skin as it splits, the fear; it overwhelms me. This perfect feeling, it’s exactly what I need to get to him. I hush the voice in the back of my mind that whispers warning, and I give no heed to the fact that the rest of the tar in the pit is building on itself, becoming agitated and inching closer with every step I take towards my Fearling. I do not give a moment’s consideration to anything except for the scent drawing me in, and the anticipation of how the fear will taste.

The Fearling squeals as I lean down over the bubbling darkness and cup it’s mangled face in my hands. The places where it has been torn and rent are oozing, it’s eyes are nothing but suppurated holes of flesh; its hideousness is utterly endearing. The tar climbs from the sores in its body and coats my fingers, seeping up my arm to the elbow. It is warm and soothing, hypnotic almost. I inhale and the absolute terror of the Fearling in my hands—the fear of fear itself, pushes me beyond all reason.

“Oh, you poor thing,” I murmur.

I descend upon it gently. It’s just so lovely.

The taste is divine and I

can

not

stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pitch, is going to get indigestion.


	7. Thin Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Honor of Black Ice Week
> 
> After a visit with Sophie and Jamie, Jack decides that he's done with all this fear and anxiety. He's going to prove to himself once and for all that there is nothing to be scared of. 
> 
> Such a pity that he's wrong.

In the early hours of the morning, when the dawn is still struggling to climb over the horizon, a blast of frigid air barrels through the streets and alleys of the small town. He rides the wind like a wave, laughing in delight and casting torrents of snow wherever he goes. It is only an hour before the streets and houses are heavy with the stuff. He has been away from this place for far too long and his favorite little one has been weighing on his mind. Once the town is thoroughly drowning in winter, he makes his way to the small house only a mile or so from the pond. The window is unlocked as always and he slips quietly inside. 

He thinks it unwise to wake his friend. It would make him too worn down for all the fun that awaits them in only a few hours. Instead he walks casually towards the bed, he brushes his fingers tentatively across the blue duvet, wondering if his cold will wake the boy. He decides he doesn’t care, he’s been avoiding sleep for the past while now and this place makes him feel safe. He places his staff on the floor quietly and crawls onto the bed. Then, turning his head and craning his neck, he takes in the recent additions to the walls and windows. Nearly a hundred paper snowflakes have been plastered on the ceiling to join the pre-existing, glow-in-the-dark stars. The walls are almost more impressive: the places where the wall offers space between posters of UFO’s and the Abominable Snowman are completely overrun with cutouts and balls of cotton sprinkled with white and silver glitter. Elsewhere, a small clay model that looks suspiciously like an anthropomorphized humming bird rests, half painted on the cluttered desk. He smiles a secret smile to himself, quite pleased at the likeness. Finally he curls up at the foot of the bed, closes his eyes, and slumbers without worry for the first time in a good long while. Everything is as it should be and he has no room in his head for unpleasant make-believes.

He awakens the next morning to an amazing amount of noise and excitement, not simply from his bedmate, who is ecstatic to see him and gifts him with a breath-snatching hug, but from the awe he can feel pouring out of every child’s window and door as they are astounded by the aftermath of an out-of-season blizzard and delighted at the resulting snow day. 

The two of them swoop to the boy’s younger sister’s room, bundle her up and run outside like speeding bullets to play it all away.

The day slips by quickly in a way that makes him quite morose indeed. Especially when he learns that his precious, brown-haired believer must eat supper and be tucked into bed earlier than normal for a school trip the next day. Of course he waits around to say a proper goodbye. He hugs the sister and squeezes his special little one a tad too tightly, so much so that he gains a concerned look from those big, intelligent eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

He halts, that small paranoid part of him not quite as dead as he wants it, even after all this time. Soon though, he breaks into a smile and the little ones mirror it. 

“Not at all! Come on, I’m doing great don’t you see? I’m just going to miss you that’s all.”

“Are you going somewhere?” the boy asks with wide eyes, his grin slipping like butter in a pan.

“Well, yes. I have to bring fun to the rest of the world too you know. Although I’d much rather stay here for all 365 days of the year.”

“I know but—” he lightly catches the boy’s downcast chin and brings his face level so he can stare into those brown eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll always come back here. That’s a promise.” His eyes light up as he has a wonderful thought. “I have an Idea! How about I come back as soon as school ends for you? We can run over to the rink and have a fight in the Zamboni snow piles. We can spend from dawn until dusk together and no one will notice if I make a little extra right?”

The young boy’s eyes shine with anticipation and his sister makes an excited whooping sound that ends in a fit of giggles and earns her a hushed “Shhhhh.” from her brother.

“That’s great! That’s only like two months! My school ends on June 22, so make sure you’re not late, I’m tired of waiting around for you!”

“Sure thing, my little guardian,” he laughs as he tousles brown hair for the last time before beginning to float towards the window.

“Hug! Hug!” the little blond bird chirps, earning another hush.

“Of course! How could I forget that Aussie’s favorite ankle biter?” He swoops down to hugs her and then snatches up her brother so that the three of them are soon reduced to a giggling, shushing, cuddle-puddle on the floor.

He takes the time to tuck the children into bed and leaves small, dancing snowflakes to mesmerize them and lead them into dreamland. When the both of them are soundly sleeping, he creeps again out of their window.

It is not entirely dark, somewhere between dusk and night; there are stars and streetlamps. Still, he feels that it is dimmer than it should be. He floats slowly along the lighted path, reluctant to stray from the main street. He hopes that the golden one will arrive soon so he can return to the safety of the Arctic. Though the darkness should no longer surprise him, somehow it feels too deep tonight, too lightless. That persistent little part of his brain urges him away; he can play with golden dreams on another night, for now it is time to leave, to be safe, to be cautious. He becomes irritated with himself. He feels like a coward and a fool. When did things become about protecting himself instead of focusing on new ways to create laughter, joy, and fun? What is he protecting himself from anyways? There is nothing in the dark to be scared of! They all made sure of that a year ago! This was ridiculous, these paranoid thoughts were crushing him, suffocating him. They needed to be dealt with! He needed to snuff them out for good!

Not a moment later a streetlamp flickers, sputters, and goes out about half a block from where he floats. A shiver rakes down his spine and he nearly flees then and there. But his anxiety soon melts away into anger and indignation. How dare he be afraid of the dark. How dare he! What a disgrace. He should laugh in the face of the pitiful darkness!

Another lantern flickers, this time nearer and he becomes enraged at his own persistent cowardice.

“I’m not afraid, do you hear me? I’m not afraid of the dark!”

The streetlamps twinkle, seeming to snicker at him in mockery. In a blind rage that betrays the true measure of his fear, he summons up a wind heavy with piercing shards of sleet and sends it howling at the remaining streetlamps, snuffing them out with small pops and shatters of glass.

“Who’s scared now, huh?” he crows at the murdered lamps. 

He is abnormally irritated and little is likely to quench his aggravation. He decides to end things once and for all, to crush the cowardice writhing in the reptilian section of his brain that has yet to evolve. Swiftly, he flies towards the deserted lake only a quarter of a mile or so from the town. As he approaches, the banks of the pond reveal themselves to him. They lie, jagged and crusted with frosted rocks and brambles. Left so long without his influence, the ice has only frozen the perimeter of the water, no more than a few feet inwards of the shore. The center of the pond gapes open like a yawning maw of rippling tar. He shivers once more but clenches his teeth and flies forward over the surface of the water. As he drifts over it, the water begins to freeze and slowly the ominous black hole dissipates. He stands on the newly frozen surface, panting and very afraid despite himself. Yet he wills his body still. He has to stay there. Only a few more minutes, only a few more minutes he thinks, and then he will have proven that his terror has no grounds. That small part of his brain will finally shut up, he won’t worry anymore and he will no longer cower and cringe at shadows when he knows the others aren’t looking. All is silent. The seconds creep by and seem to drag along his exposed face, raising all the hairs on his body. The moment passes, the minutes come and go, and nothing happens.

He opens his eyes and searches in the dark. He sighs, relaxing for real this time. At last he can stop being afraid. He places his hand over his pounding chest and lets out a little giggle. What was he expecting? The giggle turns to full out laughter. What a fool he has been and how silly he must look now. Surely if his friends could see him they would be laughing too. He flips his staff a few times and twirls it from arm to arm, bravery now entirely restored. He cracks a crooked grin; he fully intends to cause the golden one some playful mischief. Or maybe he’ll give the environmentalists something to yammer about and create another late snow day. Hell, with how good he’s feeling he could make a week’s worth of blizzards! He skips up, whooping at the star-sprinkled sky and casts his staff in a wide circle, twirling and causing bursts of white to explode like fireworks all around him. He laughs and it’s a joyous sound rich with youth and free at last of fear.

He lets himself drop unceremoniously to the frozen surface. His foot lands with a soft thud, the other remains upraised in a balancing game. The bottom of his gnarled staff teeters on one of his fingers as he plays the role of a circus performer. All is well.

And just like that, it ends.

The ice beneath his feet makes an awful groan and he has barely a second to piece together the notion that it is melting rapidly beneath him. How is this possible? He is master of cold, the prince of winter. Nothing thaws in his realm! The layers flake away and water rushes through the thin sheet. Something else grabs his attention. The water moves as if alive. It is dark and it is cold and he is scared again. He smashes his staff on the ice, desperate as he tries to re-freeze the surface. Nothing happens and his chest tightens. It’s not working. Why isn’t it working? Then the water grows hot, scalding even, almost to boiling point and it hurts him deep, to his nerves. The water brands marks into his skin as it grasps his ankles painfully and he is jerked downwards, his feet breaking through a few more layers of ice. He tries to fly but he won’t leave the ground. He is panicking now because the water isn’t really water. The water is shadow, dark and ageless, nothing like tainted dreamsand. It is sentient and filled with ancient malice. He can hear laughter in his ears as it drags him under and the burning liquid scalds his lungs. 

The last thing he remembers is searching wildly for the moon and finding nothing but darkened sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, my hand slipped. It's going to get progressively darker from here on guys, so hang on.
> 
> Pitch is the most delusional fucker... No, Pitch. Jack's not going to like you if you do this. Jesus man.
> 
> Next: Pitch is in denial, Jack isn't doing so well, and let's just say that something nasty 'comes up'.
> 
> Also, I'll be updating more around the weekly mark now that BIW is over. Updating every day is hard.


	8. Disgorged Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's mine. I won't let you break it first.

It has been two weeks. Two weeks and he still scrabbles away when it comes time for me to treat his burns. They are mild now, not like when I first had him brought here. Then he would not stop whimpering and he did not sleep. He would quiet himself when he heard me coming, and cry in secret when I left. 

Now, he is well enough to play games. Oh he thinks I do not know, he thinks me unaware, but the walls are my messengers. They tell me when he has been idle, staring into space; so still he seems like a corpse, and they tell me when he has been sneaking around, searching for his staff and a way out. It is days like this, days when he is strong that I enjoy visiting him the most. It reminds me of old times, ‘fun’ times.

“I still can’t believe you had the nerve to forget our little exchange. Is there nothing but powder in that brain of yours?”

He stills and stops pawing around in the corners and crevices for some clue of escape. His breath quickens in the way it always does the moment he notices me. I make sure to stand straighter and ignore the throbbing in my skull that has been growing since I fed on the Fearling. 

Something is wrong. As soon as I left the cavern and the tar behind, the fear turned to ash and rot inside of me and the strength I gained vanished. I was forced to return, lying in wait until I could bend the liquid shadow that surrounded me to my will and make it take him. Even now the fear leaves the aftertaste of festering meat coating my mouth. It’s repugnant, as if it has gone to spoil. That’s not all either, it seems the further I stray from the cavern, the more volatile it becomes. I feel it inside me, squirming like something not-quite dead. It makes me ill, but right now I don’t have the luxury of an alternative.

“Did you hear me? Or have you also conveniently forgotten how to listen? Might I add that it’s awfully rude to ignore gifts? Especially ones crafted with care and effort.”

He does not look at me; instead he fixes the floor with a dark brooding stare, as if he is willing the stone beneath him to shatter and suck him down. I fight back the urge to shake him. He is so obstinate this time around, the sweetness gone from his demeanor and hard unyielding cold taking its place. Perhaps I should not have hurt him the way I did, it has made him closed-off and unreachable.

It’s not as if I had a choice! How am I at fault for the mismanaged temperature and temperament of a substance I’ve had no practice wielding? It’s not like pure shadow and about as far from dreamsand as things get. The tar has a mind of it’s own. If I were even slightly weaker it would probably try its hand at puppeteering me.

It’s unfortunate that he reacts so badly to things. I didn’t mean to hurt him, why can’t he see that? No matter, time fixes all. Fortunately for me, in this round, time is something I can afford. 

Now…

_Look at me._

I snake my hand forward quickly and take hold of his jaw. His bones are so sharp, like glass covered by a thin layer of skin. He moves as I expect him to: in that jerking way that tells of years without touch. While it used to be endearing, it is now maddening and frustrating. Why does he continue to be so resistant? Why has he not warmed to my touch, to the care I have given in treating his wounds, to the affection I know he must crave; the intimacy he hungers for to the point of pain. I can see it in his eyes, in his gasps every time our skin touches. If it were me in his place I…

I raise my other hand to his face and he jerks again, shrinking back into the wall without a sound. It angers me. I want to strike him. I want to show him that my kindness is easily lost. And yet somehow this seems wrong. I berate myself: violence begets violence, and for one so cornered… I decide it will not do to be forceful. I move slowly closer, at a full kneel now so that we are on the same level. He does not react when my hand bypasses his cheek and instead comes to rest gently atop his head. His hair is matted and I realized he has not bathed properly for two weeks. I have not let him bathe. I twirl a strand absently and feel the muscles in his jaw stiffen as he clenches his teeth together. I come to the second realization that he has neither eaten nor drank since his arrival. It’s not as if he needs it, but it is a comfort I could offer him. 

“Things don’t have to be this way. My invitation still stands if you would only accept it. Why do you reject me even now? I could be kind, you know.” 

He remains mute, like a statue, like a mime. Rejection stings yet again, picking at my insides. I search his face for redemption, for a sign that he will yield to me, that he will look at me. His lip twitches and hope spikes up in me. I tire of this tug and pull, this constant battle. I am _so_ tired lately. His upper lip curls in a snarl and his face twists, despite his exhaustion and pain, into one of distain. It wounds me, makes me ache, and I lose myself in rage. I snatch his jaw and I pry open his lips with my hands—my fingers will surely leave marks in the hollow of his cheeks. I thrust a handful of shadows into his mouth and they twist around like blades, cutting him as they collaborate with his lingering magic to make another sculpture. He reels at the pain, the heat blisters left on the inside of his mouth from the tar burst, and he makes muffled screams through his nose.

“You won’t speak? Fine then. See how you like it without a tongue. Here, it's a reminder of what I left you at the Pole, try not to forget this time!”

With a yank I extract the sculpture from his jaws, he whimpers at the blood that dribbles from his lips, for once obstinacy gone, sweetness back and I wonder why he can not always be this way. I would be kind! I swear I would! I cast the thing at his feet but he is no longer looking at me, he is cowering. Hands dotted with his blood press against his face. 

I calm down and realize with a jolt that I have done it again, I have fouled things up again. 

No I—why did I hurt him? I decided against it! I curse myself and can no longer bear to look at him. I should leave him, I should let him recover; regain his spark. Perhaps he will come to like the dark. Perhaps he will come to like me. 

I'm such a fool. I need to be patient… I should be able to do that. Why is it that I lose my composure when it comes to him? I… My head feels heavy like lead, pain making it hard to hold up. I am confused, how can I make him join me, how without using fear, or pain or force. 

My head is splitting now. Shadows cloud my thoughts; there is a bad taste in my mouth and the wriggling in my stomach intensifies. I feel ill. A metallic tang blossoms on my tongue. I— _ugh._ The tar in my stomach moves again and somehow, I’m on my knees. Breathing is difficult. I blank out for a moment and what’s inside of me lurches, then expands. It slithers upwards and I feel fingers, hands climbing the walls of my stomach. What on earth—pain flares at the base of my chest while my esophagus distends to accommodate the crawling of bones. I feel a portion of spine scrape somewhere near my lungs and I gag. I lose control as the thing fills my throat; it makes my neck contort against my will, twisting in a way that would snap a mortal’s. I’m suddenly staring into wide blue eyes. The pull inside me reaches a frantic spike, urging me forward eagerly. It’s then that I realize what it wants. 

I slap a hand over my mouth as the tar reaches it. I shake while the pain spreads like the corrosion of skin by acid. I lurch forward as the foulness saturates my tongue and pushes against my lips, begging to get past them, past my hand, to him. I choke and some splashes out, overflowing like slick oil and filth. Immediately it starts seeping towards him. He makes a strangled sound and I look at him again. His eyes are no longer on me. Instead he stares in abject horror at the slithering, organic substance.

I spring forward and squash the thing with my palm. Quickly I send it somewhere, anywhere as long as it’s not near him. Our eyes meet for a moment. There is a second of recognition before his pupils dilate again and his heart rate thrums out of control. I want to tell him to calm down, that I won’t let it hurt him, but if I do that it will get out.

It does anyway.

An ungodly sound spills from my mouth with the tar. I retch as the half-digested creature pulls itself out through my fingers and nose like a string of handkerchiefs. Tears blind me, falling to meld with the horror that strives to pry itself loose, scuttling and dragging along the rock for leverage. I realize that it isn’t the Fearling moving. Instead, the tar is wound around and inside its carcass, animating it. It is ugly, putrid, and in no way endearing. It feels so old. Older than bones and dust, older than this planet, it tastes like dead universes and black holes; it burns like decrepit stars.

I dig my fingers into it, sinking knuckle deep into blackness the depth of space. I pull, trying to claw it back, but the single mindedness it has for him is overwhelming. I feel my knees skid against stone as razor fingers and charred bones scrabble for him. Finally, he finds his voice and his scream saturates the air. The sound is filled with everything wrong. Everything is going wrong.

This isn’t what I want. I want him afraid, but I want him to like it, to learn to like it. I want him willing more than anything. This thing does not want him live at all. It wants him mangled and twisted into something else entirely. I must not allow that.

I meet his eyes one last time. He has quieted, but it is not from calm. His screams won’t come. His fear is jarring, quickly splintering, fracturing and pulling at the cracks of the wholeness he has left. 

_I can’t let it touch him._ I call the few shadows that still do my bidding. They pool under me, under the thing writhing from my mouth, and I use the remaining strength I have to drag the tar backwards with me as I launch myself into utter darkness. The thing wails like grinding metal on metal but amidst its horrid screams I can almost imagine that he finds his voice and cries out my name.

I land with a crash and the thing screeches in displeasure. It rips itself the rest of the way out of my throat and sharp, slicing agony blooms inside of me. We’ve landed dangerously close to the edge of the dark pool. The thing thrashes like a deformed newborn. I need to get rid of it. Send it back to where it came from. If—if I could just move the shadows a little more… Yes! The ledge crumbles beneath the power of my darkness and the thing slides, screaming, down the wall and back into the consuming embrace of the tar pool. The surface bubbles for a moment and ripples dance outwards from the point of impact. I hold my breath, praying that it doesn’t crawl back up. After what seems like forever, the bubbling ceases and the surface calms. Its screams too, have stopped.

There is a deafening ringing in my ears. I can’t see. The pain in my throat spikes and there is something filling my mouth that does not taste like tar. At least it is gone… That’s good. Good… Now, all that’s left is to get back. I can’t leave him now, it’s not safe. Not with his fear this loud. I can smell it from here. He’ll be just like a sweet flower in the desert, a beacon for the rest of the shadows. I have to get back. I have to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long week for me. Apologies for the tardy update. They should be pretty regular from now on though. 
> 
> Also, sorry but things don't get any easier for either of them.
> 
> Next up: Jack calms down enough to wander, too bad his 'scent' is like a trail of thread in a maze.


	9. If I Say I Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Pitch disappears, Jack is left to wander the lair alone. Or is he?

The boy’s nails are battered from scratching blindly against stone, and his tremors do not cease as he wanders, searching for a way out. The dark one has not returned. He works himself into a state of utter panic at the thought that he might not come back; that he might be left here with that—that **thing**. The daily visits, the invasive touches, the dark one’s irrational and sometimes even childish fits of rage that often leave him a sniveling heap; he hates them, but now he thinks that they are better than this. Anything is better than this. The silence coats a lurking apprehension in his gut. The stagnant darkness and his rising fears slowly squeeze around his ribs over and over again until he crumples into a ball—like metal under pressure—trying to drown out the vividness of his imagination.

He almost manages a laugh at the amount of detail his brain lends him when it comes to recalling the monster. Not the dark one, the real monster that dragged its way out, cut its way out, screamed its way out, to reach for him. Now he’d almost give his staff away (if he had it) to hear the silver tongued words try and cut him to the core. That at least would mean there was nothing else hungering for him in the dark.

The wounds in his mouth have healed, and he calls out in a whisper. There is no answer, no tendrils of shadow that seek him out. He continues to crawl, to walk, to search and call out between episodes of breath-snatching panic.

He has no notion of time in this place. Gravity and space do not seem to have concrete laws either. He is deep. Deeper than he’s ever been before and the only light comes from sparse and mysterious phosphorous. There are stairs upon stairs upon stairs. There are twisting floors and bridges that lead to nothing, and those sad, drooping cages dangle in high numbers from the many stalactites. They reach towards the floor like enormous teeth and conjure the imagery of a rotting mouth. It has been so long now that he has walked and, without knowing, re-walked most of the mazes and tunnels, steep holes, and chimneys of rock. He has climbed the seemingly smooth pillars—his nails finding ledges the width of a string to cling to, and he has painfully scaled the pockmarked arches that contain the bowels of the lair. Still there is no out. No real up or down and, worst of all, no sign of the dark one.

He feels a month or so surely must have passed, and yet he has no way of knowing considering his body does not change, his hair does not grow, his stomach does not ache from hunger, nor his throat parch from thirst. Neither are there any indications, any telltale clues from the outside world. 

It is during one of his explorations that he—while hanging from a jug in the rock and looking down at the dark, slithering, shifting chaos of the maze—has the sinking thought that he might never leave this place. After all, he has searched tirelessly again and again for his staff, for a means of escape, for some glimmer of light, and found only more darkness. Perhaps he is doomed to linger in the dark, forever lost in warped caverns and shifting stairways. He shakes the thought away. It has been long enough without sign of the real monster that his fighting spirit is starting to return. The smallest glimmer of anger and determination is starting to bud. He won’t give in so easily he decides.

Still, fear tugs at him by the hour like a burden growing heavy on his back. It acts as a parasite that clips at his sprouting hope. As the time drags on alone in this place, his head and shoulders begin to curve and standing straight is a chore that requires more will than he has to give. He begins to notice that the walls are shrinking behind him as he walks and that a nameless, silent terror often grips him. His instincts tell him to bolt but his brain tells him to keep walking at an even pace. He must not run, that much he knows. He cannot escape, he cannot turn around and he cannot stop walking. It is times like these that are the worst for him. Something follows him. He cannot hear it, nor is he able to see it, but he feels it. It makes him so afraid he wants to scream and become violent to get rid of the feeling. He cannot. All he can do is to keep walking in circles, making sure to never hit a dead end, until the feeling leaves him. It is after times like these that he finally breaks down.

“Is that you? I’m begging you, please come back!”

When he is met with nothing but silence, his hysteria can only escalate and he shouts and screams and begs through tears. “I’ll talk to you! I swear I’ll talk to you!”

Sometimes the stalking goes on for an immeasurably long time and he swears he is going insane. In the aftermath he can barely speak and, desperate for some kind of reprieve, he pulls out the dark gift that was cast at his feet. He whispers to it as if it can hear him, “See I kept it, I cherished it, I like you, I like you. I swear I do. Please just would you—please would you come back? Come let me out, let me out, let me out. Don’t leave me here, I promise I’ll like you. I do, I do! I like you, I’ll love you, just don’t leave me here.”

But no one comes and he is forced to walk again and again, each time his back more bent, his stance more broken, and his eyes wearier. Afterwards, his prayers become fervent and obsessive. Sometimes he whispers them, barely audible, even to himself and sometimes he screams them, at the top of his lungs, until his throat is raw and then he cries again because no one is listening. Now, when he walks, he bites his lip and wrings his hands, picks at his cuticles and breathes like he’s dying. He figures he is, slowly.

He has not slept in weeks and he does not stop walking, even if he is not being followed. He walks mindlessly, following the changing landscape of the tunnels and stairs, dropping down into pits that only lead to more tunnels and more stairs. There is no tangible pattern to navigating the place; he has just been extremely lucky not to lose his way. Sometimes, when wandering while truly alone, he suddenly happens upon a dead end, a wrong turn leading to nothing but the solidity of a lightly cracked or chipped wall. It is times like these that squeeze his chest to bursting and it is times like these where he sprints back out into the open cavern and prays, begs, and pleads between tearful hiccups, kneeling beneath the swaying cages on high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long time in-between updates. Life got in the way. Should have the next chapter up fairly soon. I finally got the inspiration for this fic back, so look forward to more regular updates.
> 
> Next chapter: A new point of view means bad news for Jack.


	10. We Found It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we found it we found it we found it we found it we found it we found it we found it we found it we found it we found it we found it

It smells nice, yes it does. So nice, so nice, like blood on ice, and tears in the cold, dead snow. It smells like frost-chapped lips that crack, and chattering teeth around a wet, pink, tongue. Like dragging dead limbs in rotten moccasins until all the toes grind down to nubs of black and white flesh. The smell of it is thick and we eat it up. We lick the walls and floors of the places it has touched. We follow it and pick up the scattered crystal-cold beads that taste like it’s eyes, lips, and cheeks. If we collect enough they make a pool in our hands and then we can drink them down. 

The longer it is here, the more we get to know of it. We now know that sound it makes, the one when it hurts the worst. The sound becomes a smell added to the scent of it, and it feels all the sweeter passing through us and out the other side with the frigid breeze. We know the loudest of its screams and the softest of its whispers, the intervals of its steps just before it crashes down for another gasping fit, and the pacing of its breathing before its lungs stick from fear. 

We smell a child under the years, the growing flavor in the air of a child’s dreadful fears, and then and then and then, once only child remains, we will reach out all at once, drive it winding down to exit-less paths, and herd it, herd it, herd it.

It smells nice, smells nice, like bloody ice.


	11. Found You.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's luck finally runs out, and the 'lesser' monsters catch him with his back against a wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback so far, I really appreciate it! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.
> 
> The dynamic between Pitch and Jack is going to take a shift soon. I've tried to tag everything appropriately but if you think of a tag I could add, feel free to let me know. I want to make sure I tag all possible trigger content.

It's finally happened. 

His luck has run out. The wall spans ten feet high and is marred with an enormous gash extending from the ceiling all the way to the floor beneath his feet. 

He stops breathing. 

He leaps upon the wall, thrusting his arm forward through the crack. Maybe he can fit, maybe he can squeeze through and keep going. He gets up to his elbow before his heart sinks and reality sets in. The air is hot as it passes his tongue and travels down his throat. He unjams his arm, and his nails scrabble over rock, trying to find some way, any way, out. Soon his abused cuticles are bleeding from the roughness of the wall. It is getting hotter. Sweat makes his hoodie stick to and irritate the bare skin underneath. He flips around, pressing his back against the dead-end, feeling the jagged edges of the rocky scar poke through his clothing and into his skin. He searches the tunnel in front of him for a turn off, a warped staircase, a hole he might have missed. There is only darkness, nothing more.

The small ones come first and make him realize that he’s mistaken, that it’s not the _thing_ from before. Relief is a fleeting balm that scatters as he takes in what they look like. They are all spindly things with shadow bones in the wrong places and ragged holes where eyes should be. There are dozens of them and he breaths hard, trying to stay under control. The heat rises and the shadows become denser. They come closer and he begins to wilt in response, frost wicking off his skin and clothes. 

His coherent thoughts scatter and scramble at the bone area of his skull. They climb out his ears and march down his neck, disappearing through the crack in the wall, escaping in a way that he can’t. Now, there is emptiness in his head, no buffer to stem the flow of steadily looping scenes, images that drag him backwards through time and wear him down like the tattered edges of his pants. Long ago days wash over him, days where he fabricated dead-eyed companions out of ice and spoke to them like a mad boy. Larger ones are approaching now and he can barely string two neurons together. He trembles, his mouth parched as the heat rises, he can smell the saltines of his own sweat dripping from every pore. It hurts to breathe. It’s hot—no, scorching again. The tunnel warps as they crawl along the walls and ceiling like a swarm of deformed insects.

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” he desperately chants. “I’m not afraid of the dark, I’m not afraid of the dark, I’m not afraid of the dark! I’m not…”

Brittle legs and a heavy, drooping body land on his shoulder. His eyes roll up into his head. His shoulder is on fire! The weight drags him down to his knees and all he can hear are clicking noises that sound to him like laughter. He feels another latch onto his hand and he screams, fear corroding him. Another is on his thigh and nausea kicks in, he sways, blinded by the pain, tormented by the images flashing in his mind. A fourth lands on his stomach with force and winds him. The clicking becomes louder and louder, deafening, rising until his head is bursting and the warm trickle of blood drips over his top lip. And then, as swiftly as the noise came, a heavy silence muffles all.

The fearlings drop from his arms, leaving him heavy and dizzy and sick, like when there is no food in the stomach for days and the body screams, aching and exhausted. He sways, about to fade.

It comes then, warping everything, shutting out everything. He whimpers once before his throat sticks, two walls of flypaper rubbed together. He tries to shut his eyes but there are shadows in his head, too.

The Nightmare Man steps out from the swarm, all red-hot darkness starving for his bones, his eyes, and his brain. Its flesh is inside out, ribs poking at skewed angles with blackened organs and teeth on its arms. There is no face, no eyes to look into for pity, this is nothing like the dark man. He kneels there, back arched with his neck all contorted, twisted upwards as he gapes, something rising like bile and filling his lungs. He finds his voice then but it is pitiful, a whisper of a name, useless as the fear drowns him from inside, twisting him up until he feels like the Nightmare Man looks. It leans down from its towering perch—a tree leaning down to greet a weed. A long, sharp arm with needles that leak ink everywhere extends towards his face. It stains his clothing. _It burns_. Fingers seem to grow from everywhere, the clicking has started again and he finally lunges to one side and dribbles up spittle and bile, shaking and retching before he turns to face it again. It is so close and he cries out softly as a finger ghosts near the side of his face.

It smiles.

It stabs him through the ear, through the brain, swift like a nail gun, and leaves its finger there. In a rush all he knows is pain. Pain, pain, pain, and he is so afraid, so much that he loses his mind. And this time the screams he manages are loud, louder than he’s ever screamed, with eyes rolling in the head and mind melting and body shaking like he’s having a fit, he can feel foam out of the corners of his mouth but he can’t see anymore. He wants to die. He wants to die. He wants to die.

He can’t, so instead he cries and screams for the dark one.


	12. Mend and Linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch finds Jack and tends to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been such a long time since I last updated this. I do have the rest of the fic mostly written out, so just know I have not abandoned this! Thanks for your patience, I hope you enjoy it.

Something surges me awake. Fear, hot and sickly like I’ve only known in the far corners of my own dreams. But this feels like something else, something too familiar, something wrong.

He’s the one screaming. Why is he screaming?

A rending sensation in the back of my throat and along my sternum makes me spasm. My muscles twitch around in pain and I remember. The monster, the tar, the way it slithered around inside of me. His scream is faint but it comes again and the next thing I know I am on my knees, crawling like a worm, trying to get to him. Why is he screaming? He shouldn’t be screaming. I took care of it. I swear I took care of it. How long has it been? How long have I left him? Why is he screaming! I lurch to the side and throw myself into the shadow after him.

I tumble down and hard stone bruises the bones under my skin. He isn’t here. He isn’t here. Where is he? I try again, sinking into shadows that seem to resist my call. They do not want me so much now, not when I am spewing blood that tastes like weakness. I have to pull myself out, slow and deliberately from syrupy darkness. Anger crackles behind my tongue, burning away the blood. This half-cocked mutiny is wearing on my patience.

It is quite suddenly silent. I am in a long tunnel where the smell of heat and iron is strong. I call my scythe to me and lean heavily on it as I rise. Slowly I follow the scent of blood. There is a splash underfoot and some kind of shimmering wetness, I realize that it is water and I follow the trail with my eye until I see it.

The dark thing in front of me is hideous, splintered and fractured. I hardly recognize it but it is my own. It turns to me and the grin on its face is vaguely familiar, it sickens me, it makes me want to maim it but I have more important things to tend to.

What of him? Where is he? It steps to the side and I see him, or what’s left.

NO.

A roar of fury lets loose from my mouth, I bring the sound forth from the deepest parts of me. Loud, louder than the sucking shriek of a black hole. Fury and helplessness at my lack of vigilance threatens to undo me. My body moves, ignoring the split inside of me. I slice the thing, shredding it. Destroying it. Killing it. Mashing it until it is nothing but pulp.

“How dare you act without my orders!” Blood dribbles down my lip and hits the ground. The little ones scatter, I stomp on them. Crushing many like roaches beneath my feet.

The blade slips through my fingers, dissolving to sand, and I crash down to my knees. No, no, no. This can’t be! I reach for him, his back is turned and I cannot see anything. I turn him my way; it is a strange sensation, his prone form. I am so used to having to fight with him.

He is still screaming. The silence escapes his wide mouth like the bile that stains his shirt. His eyes—haunted like a screaming banshee, like a witch on fire or one driven to madness and death to atone for sinful crimes. Black gunk trails from his ear as he vaguely twitches.

“Please, please, please—” he mouths before his hand brushes across my foot. I feel a stabbing surge of gratitude momentarily replace his hysteria. His fingers close on my ankle weakly, barely able to form pressure, and then he is lost. My mind pulls blanks for a moment before I gather him up and transport the both of us. I miss the bed and crash to the ground beside it. He lands heavy and limp on top of my chest and I try not to spatter him with blood spray. I roll him on his back and check him over for wounds. My hands tremble and every movement I make is a fumble.

Strangely enough his ear has cleared up, the black tar disappearing completely. I know better than to trust appearances and set him on his side, hoping to drain the fluid. There are large welts visible on his collar just below the rim of his hoodie. I force myself to rise and gather his staff and some clean water. I feel useless; I don’t know how to heal, I can only twist and destroy. I am clumsy, more so than I have ever been and my lip is soon bleeding from the way my teeth seek it out. I gingerly remove his shirt and my stomach twists. I feel around the punctured and burned areas, assessing, flinching when my hands pop the blistering skin on his stomach.

This isn’t what I wanted.

I dip his staff into the water and the permafrost on its surface melts into the filled basin with the slightest blue sheen. I gather the water in a cloth and I smear the dampened fabric over his afflictions. I’m glad he’s more dead than not. At least unconscious he cannot feel pain. The burns he obtained through my careless mistake in dragging him here were ugly enough but this, this is… And all through creatures of my own design, all while I was carelessly sleeping!

My fingers feel numb, my lip feels raw, and there is a coppery tang on my tongue that I am all to familiar with. All of his clothes lie discarded and I sway, taking in the rest of him. I look at the basin filled with what used to be clear blue water. It is stained a reddish mauve hue and little shadow ticks and bugs lie face up in the now festering liquid. It won’t be enough. The staff holds only a few shards more magic without his touch. I dump the filthy water and replenish it. I dip his staff in for the final time and the last of the magic ebbs out. The color is so much paler, I doubt it will do him much good. I sponge him down, extracting any lingering parasites, any clinging shadows hiding under the blisters on his skin. I fight for control over myself. It is nauseating and I hate my powers now more than ever before. I can give no solace, and every touch must hurt him doubly for fear is all I have to offer. At least I can clean his wounds again.

I have bandaged him and dressed him in one of my lesser robes—his clothes are infested and I cast them aside to burn later. I lie him on my bed with some difficulty and place his staff in his arms, hoping it can give him some peace of mind when he awakens. I dare not leave him again. Instead I sit and wait. I wait for a very long time and as I linger I cannot help thinking that he must have spent longer waiting for me.


	13. Letters of Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pond is thawed out, Jamie and Sophie send letters.

The young boy and his sister do their share of waiting. The lot behind the rink is empty and muddy but they wait for him anyway. They wait until it begins to get dark and then they go home. The next day they return and the pile of snow behind the rink replenishes itself, not because of him but because a loud machine driven by an acne-afflicted teen pushes slush out from inside the arena. By the third day they are filled with doubt, yet they still continue to wait. Days turn to weeks before the two finally give up. Summer is in full swing; the winter spirit will be obnoxiously late as always.

When a month passes with no word, the boy finally steals into his sister’s room, downs one of his mother’s ‘misplaced’ energy shots and pries his eyes open with tape. He hopes to stop one of the baby birds when it appears to collect his sister’s recently shed tooth. Surely they can answer his questions, or at least deliver a short message. He jerks awake the next morning, a sinking dread in his stomach, and nearly shoves his sister off the bed when he checks under her pillow. He missed them. The tooth is gone. He doesn’t play with his friends that day. Instead he runs off in the direction opposite his house, slides down the dirt hill behind the alley, and wades through the small circle of trees that lead to the pond.

It’s not frozen.

There isn’t even the slightest indication of ice tinting the edges of the water. He calls out to the sky but all he hears is the slight twitter of birds in the morning and the rising heat from summer. His heart beats fast now, something is wrong. He can feel it. Back in his room, he snatches paper and markers, pens and envelopes, and steals stamps from the drawer where his mother keeps them. His sister surprises him by tugging on his sleeve and staring quietly up at him with wide eyes. Without exchanging a word he knows that they both understand. He doesn’t miss a beat. He quickly gets her dressed before leading both of them to the library. There is a mailbox near a bench out front and he makes a B-line for it, his sister trotting hurriedly in his wake. The first thing they do is write, two letters, in entirely red ink with their names scrawled in capital letters all over their respective envelopes. He finishes first and has to help his sister with the writing bit, though she has improved at scribbling her name and insists on doing that herself. They cover the letters in stamps and hope they can make it the distance. They drop them in the mailbox and head off in the direction of the park. There they attack the remainder of their paper with urgent messages and drawings, all punctuated by a flood of question and exclamation marks. They leave their creations on picnic tables and under trees and bushes, weighted down by rocks. They scatter them in other, odder places too. Places better suited for scavenger hunts than public bulletins. They don’t know how to talk to the dream maker but every night they focus hardest on the things they hate, on having bad dreams so that maybe he will take notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a thousand years I come up with this short chapter... Like I said, I haven't abandoned this fic but I won't lie, updates will be irregular as heck. Hope you guys continue to enjoy the story!


	14. Never, ever, ever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (getting back together) nah just messin'
> 
> Jack plays his last card, Pitch is helpless.

It has been a fortnight and not once have I left him alone. In the time that I have spent watching him, not daring to leave his side, I have noticed many things. Things I once found enjoyable, things I delighted watching in others. In his case though, each small thing I notice ads to the heaviness that weights on my chest. He twitches in his sleep, restless and spastic. The hollow of his neck dips deeply when he sucks in uneven breaths, and the bones below his collar protrude like the legs of spindly insects from a thorax. He’s too thin. His brow creases often in his sleep, his fingers grasp at the covers so tightly that he has caused the beginnings of tears in the silk, his teeth grind, his spine twists and turns and drags the rest of him along as he writhes. He cries at times, very silently. He screams at times too. It is when he screams that I cannot bear to be near him, it is when he screams that I long to mutilate every last shadow before I separate my own limbs from my body. His fear is something I used to incite, something I used to welcome. Now his fear and screams make me ill. He is no longer afraid of me, that much is certain. His terror is for something else, and when he screams during these times, it is my name and no other that he calls.

 

One day he finally opens his eyes. It is an ugly affair, and any thoughts I had of him being sound in the mind die quickly. He claws himself awake and tears apart the covers. He throws my robe off his shoulder with a shriek so that he is naked save for oozing bandages. His eyes are at first unseeing, glazed an ugly, dull grey. His mouth is half open with his tongue rising and falling slightly while he pants for breath. His eyes focus and he darts them around, searching franticly. He seizes up when he sees me. His pupils dilate, his breathing becomes more rapid, the bones in his chest push at his skin as if they wished to break free from his flesh.  I can hear the blood in his veins, the rattle of his lungs as he draws air, the creaking of his joints. His terror rolls over me in waves so much stronger than when he slept and rather than becoming drunk, I feel as if it chokes me and that I might drown.

 

He moves quickly. It startles me. _Me_ of all things! And yet it’s the truth, his new state makes me uneasy, makes me recoil from him in the way that one recoils from the guilt of a crime. He lunges forward and gathers the front of my robes in his matchstick fingers, tightly, desperately. He pulls me down to him and buries his face in my chest. His tremors move through me and I am lost. His body is so cold, so boney, his hair is damp with sweat, and all about him there is a brittle quality like spun sugar on a winter’s day.

 

Unease slides abruptly into shock when he stretches for my neck and chapped skin burrows into the hollow where my tendons intersect with bone. There is a pause and I feel all of him. Fingers twitch, his stomach writhes, the lips upon my skin suck in a shuddering breath. The blast of air burns me with cold as the temperature drops to match his insides. 

 

"I like you. I like you. I-"

 

He stops dead when I stiffen, when I recoil the smallest amount. His fingers become like brambles, or moist skin against frigid metal, loath to release me. They stick to my chest; one creeps up to the back of my neck and rests there, grasping at my hair like straws. He moves in ways I do not know of him: cautious, subdued, plaintive and appeasing. His lips part again and he checks himself, as if searching for the right words, as if trying to fix a dire mistake. His fingers once again take up their habit of scrabbling at my skin like he does not know what to do with his body. 

 

"Let me stay, _please_...I really do...like you."

 

The please is punctuated with need and my pulse jumps beneath his touch. I try to breathe but only manage to pull in feeble staccatos of air. I don't move, afraid that I misheard. But he grabs me tighter and presses himself so close that I can barely string a thought together.

 

This—what I've longed for—he, the sweetness is back and oh, how... he wants to stay wants to stay. This is perfect, I...

 

I reach up, grasping his shoulders, shoulders that do not flinch do not flinch at my touch, and hold him away from me to see, to make sure. This cannot be. It is a trick…he doesn’t, not really. It’s a lie—But those words… I thought I would never hear them! But he—this boy, he said them—to me! He said those words to me! My brain buzzes excitedly, euphoria climbing uncontrollably inside me, euphoria that blasts away my unease and makes me want to embrace him so tightly.

 

His eyes, like hoarfrost now, almost white. The pupil still cloudy, but that must be because of his long sleep. Cheeks blooming with blue fire, veins of ice scattered down his face, the darker veins of his blood pumping beneath. His skin has always been this paper-thin hasn’t it? I was just too caught up in fighting him to notice. The redness rimming his eyes too, it must have always been there. The dark circles, like bruises, and the gauntness of his already sharp cheeks are new but... Those will fade with time. With sleep. I rub them, the dark circles, with the pads of my thumbs, willing them away. The palms of my hands burn as they rest against his cheeks but I can forgive anything, any pain so long as we stay like this.

 

I pay no mind to the bruises forming under my hands. He is simply weak at the moment, that is all. They will heal. He is resilient after all. Hi mouth moves, chapped and cracked, little lines of red run vertically along his lips, little beads of blood that I ignore because he’s fine,—there is nothing wrong with this—and he's about to speak.

 

His fingers clench more tightly, the cold seeps through to my bones.

 

"Please,"

 

I am drowning in this. Something I had never dared to dream of until I met him.

 

"Don't leave me. Don't leave me alone. I’ll stay, please let me stay."

 

I can no longer control myself, I gather him to me—he is so small— and wrap my arms around him tightly. He wheezes; I must be aggravating his wounds. I do not let go, I only hold him more tightly, never again. I will never let go. We will never have to be alone. I let my eyes close and take in everything, every sensation. He smells of me. I breathe in deeply, clutching him just short of strangling. Never again, never alone, never alone, never—

 

I pause when I feel his hand on my face. I pull back and open my eyes to look at him. His fingertips glisten strangely with ice and my face feels tight, frozen around the eyes. I’m crying. How strange.

 

He looks at his hand with an expression I cannot read. For a moment he seems terribly old, while I feel young and small, like I know nothing at all of this world. It lasts less than a second before he is back, the one I like. The one that is tired, and soft, and pliant beneath my fingers. He is back and I will never let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is somewhat of a creative exercise for me: I have decided not to use names within the story itself to identify the characters. I would really love some feedback as to the effect of this stylistic choice. Is it clear who is speaking by the tone and thoughts alone, or does the lack of names hinder or distract from the story?


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